Sword and Spell
by Nintaku
Summary: A pair of warriors fight a dragon. One-shot intro to characters I may use later. Based on the Forgotten Realms campaign setting. Rating for violence.


**Forgotten Realms**

**Sword and Spell**

The darkness would have been complete, if not for the red gleam of light from the flashing blade. Yellow eyes and silver teeth reflected in the radiance. A roar permeated the cavern as the point of the sword found its way through the creature's natural armor. Thick blood oozed down to the hilt, and the warrior twisted his grip to work the scales further apart. A short burst of flame shot from the dragon's mouth, catching on the warrior's cloak. The new light silhouetted long pointed ears and deep green hair long enough to be tucked into the cloak. Fire had eaten away the shoulder of the fighter's clothes and burned the skin terribly, but the magic armor he wore refused to be set ablaze. Though terrible pain shot through his left arm, the elf twisted his blade again. Sickening cracks signalled the ripping and breaking of flesh and scale. Vicious claws writhed to escape the grasp of magically animated and strengthened ivy, instantly grown by spell to ensnare the mighty creature.

Carefully standing away from the battle stood a dark sorceress, watching for opportunity to use her magic to help the heroic elf. Not all of her spells would prove useful in this particular situation, so she was careful to waste none of her limited energies on meaningless magics. Her ebony skin and cloak matched the darkness perfectly. She was one with the shadows on the cave wall. Her scent would certainly gave away her presence, but not her position. As long as her companion kept the beast's attention away from her, she was content to merely hinder it from afar.

The elf pulled his sword from the wound and ducked to avoid a snap from the dragon's powerful jaws. Seeing how feral its eyes were made it difficult to imagine the cruel intellect that so recently ravaged the nearby towns along the Dragon Coast. He dodged again, quickly taking steps left as the monster's head thrust at him straight on. It couldn't follow that quickly, or counter the dodge. As much as it pulled, the magical vegetation kept its claws still trapped. The red light emenating from the magic sword continued to the creature's right as the large head swung around to bite and burn. This elf was obviously a dragon slayer. Few who didn't do this regularly would have decided to close in on the beast, hugging its neck rather than trying to escape the free jaws. The sorceress shouted from the darkness. Her voice almost seemed a hiss.

"My spell weakens, Atanvardo! Be wary!" The language was a frightening dialect of elven called 'undercommon'. It sounded as if alterations were made to make it sound like sweet poison, rather than fine silk. Perhaps a vampire had rewritten the language. Perhaps something similar.

Atanvardo, the elven dragon slayer, looked down as he dropped to the floor from the creature's shoulder. He made his way to the creature's left forepaw, and saw the ivy strained to the limit. It was beginning to rip, and trailed thin streams of greenish fluid as it bled. He hummed shortly. Almost a grunt. The dragon roared once more, tired of being so toyed with by such small creatures. It leaned to its right and swung its head to the side, throwing all of it's weight into pulling from the magic greenery. The warrior made another thrust at the dragon. He slid the sword between the large scales on top of the dragon's paw and lifted. The sword acted as a crowbar, lifting off a segment of the armor. The paw hit the ground again, pulling away from the sword. It was afraid.

The elf didn't have time to dodge. The dragon slammed its head into him, sending him to the cavern wall. It opened its mouth to spew fire at the fallen hero. The sorceress of the shadows called out to it, issuing a challenge in its own language. Surprised, it closed its mouth and turned to look at her. She had stepped into the meager light of the magic sword to draw attention. Her hood was down, showing flowing white hair and the glowing eyes common to sorcerers. Her ears were long and pointed, like those of her companion, and she possessed the same elven beauty. The beast growled and fire began to churn deep in its throat. The sorceress raised her hands and spoke something in an ancient language only the recovering elf understood. The breaking entanglement spell released the creature's claws, retracted into the ground, and shot out to hold the massive jaws shut. It tried to roar in retaliation, but only succeeded in making a loud muffled growl and sending smoke out of its nostrils. Again, the sorceress spoke.

"Now, hurry!" Atanvardo, the dragon slayer, finally managed back to his feet. He gripped his sword with both hands, and looked over the situation. The dragon raised it's uninjured claw and slashed downward to cut the magic snare. Ivy sliced cleanly, but remained wrapped around the creature's elongated jaws. That was his opportunity. While his prey balanced on it's left paw, Atanvardo lept into the air and dropped his full weight onto the sword, carefully aimed at the hole he'd made in the scales. The dragon flinched, dropping to it's left shoulder as it lost balance. A quick leap away took the elf to safety, at the cost of his sword. Smoke filled the cavern's ceiling, rolling out into the night air. The sorceress pointed her palms at the dragon, and it was suddenly surrounded by a cloud of darkness. The elf scrambled to his feet and ran over to her as she created a wall of spider-webbing. She hoped it would keep the creature at bay for a while.

Atanvardo and his companion raced out of the cavern, coughing as they struggled to breathe. The dragon bellowed and tried to roar. It was blind and injured. The two made their way to the clean air outside, and another spell sealed the cave's entrance with a combination of webbing and animated plants. No more smoke escaped. The sorceress fell to her knees. The swordsman was already there. The soot was only evident on Atanvardo's face. His voice was clear and soft.

"Thank you." He spoke a softer version of undercommon. She glared at him for a moment before allowing herself a smile.

"You have skill, surfacer." Her exhaustion was evident in her voice. The moon, Selune, hung low over the horizon. It was obvious that the woman was a drow, and a young one, at that. She grinned at an observation. "You lost your sword." The fighter nodded. A lock of blackened hair fell into his face.

"Fear not. We always end up together, again. Destiny has bound us, after all. I will go in after it, once the beast has had time to drown in his own fumes." Atanvardo let his breaths slow, winding down from the excitement. "Thank you again, Quilue. That might have been my last hunt, without you there. About your reward..." He started to get to his feet. The drow put a hand on his shoulder. He winced away.

"You're hurt. Don't move so much. I'll collect when we return to town. First let's get you patched up." She started searching through the leather sack she carried on her belt. "Take off your armor." She pulled out medical supplies. Not many were left, but there was enough bandage and medicines to help soothe the burn. Atanvardo slowly and carefully removed his ever-shifting cloak, and started on his hardened leather armor. Both had a hole in the left shoulder, but both were magic and could heal themselves over time.

"Do you not have any healing spells? I prefer magic to more conventional methods." He gritted his teeth as he removed the last of his upper armor. His skin shimmered lightly in the moonlight, as if it was made of the stuff. He was slender, but there was definitely a strength to that body. It wasn't frail, by any means. 'Sleek' would be a much more appropriate word. Not all of his skin was flawless, however. On his left shoulder and partway down his back was a blistering wound. The flesh had been charred to black and red, with a hint of silver gleaming from beneath the surface. Quilue winced herself just looking at it, but set to work by getting out what she'd need.

"I've cast far too many spells in far too little time. I'm not as practiced as you. Besides, magic is difficult to begin with. Much harder than learning swordplay." She began to treat his burn with a white paste, that seemed to be rather grainy. It soothed much of the pain, replacing it with a very cold feeling. "I don't even know if there are spells of my sort capable of mending wounds. The only power I've seen heal is that of divinity."

Atanvardo kept his eyes closed and let the cold wash through him. "Perhaps you could seek out such a spell, then. It would be quite a boon to be able to heal under your own power, rather than relying on those who have the favor of the deities." Quilue began to cover the healing paste with white bandages as she spoke.

"I'd prefer to keep the favor of what few gods still favor me than to offend them by taking their exclusive province for my own." There was a silence as she finished bandaging him up, and then she began to put her things away. "Done. It'll take time for him to die in there, and you look like you could use a drink. Come on. Your treat." She collected her things and rose to her feet, looking at him as she waited. He carefully threw the cloak over his shoulders and stood, then picked up the upper body armor lying on the floor and began the walk to town.

"We shall work on your manners next. If you'll be living among the surface-dwellers, you should learn to not offend them."


End file.
